


The Tease

by ded_i_am_just_ded



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Dishes, M/M, prompt, shirts, so much swearing, teasing at smut, yuri is a pottymouth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-11-16 17:39:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11257704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ded_i_am_just_ded/pseuds/ded_i_am_just_ded
Summary: “Is that my shirt?”  The other’s heavier voice makes him pause as he’s reaching up for a mug from a top shelf.  He glances down and, yeah, he supposes it probably is.





	The Tease

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mylifeisaverage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mylifeisaverage/gifts).



> Lots of swearing, lots of italics. Coz it's Yuri and he's so damn...everything. It's not full-on smut, but there's some dirty work in there, so heads up.
> 
> Prompt writing to try cheer Mylifeisaverage/angstgods up!
> 
> Prompts were:  
> “That’s my shirt. So is that..wait?” & “If I win, you do dishes for a week.”

It’s a hard stare. Beka’s in the doorway and he doesn’t look too happy. But it’s too fucking early and Yuri really can’t be assed to care what he’s so mad about. There’s coffee in the machine and he used his own toothbrush and he even remembered to fold his towel up after his shower, so really, the other man should be _thrilled_ to be in his glowing presence. But no, he’s standing there, looking all thunderstorms and rain clouds in the doorway.

“What?” Okay, so maybe not the most romantic opening to a Sunday morning, but Yuri is so sore and they didn’t get in until like three fucking o’clock this morning and they really didn’t sleep until like five. And lazy sex is still sex and it’s still exhausting and he’s still worn out so please, _excuse me_ for not being a proper host to his guest. Otabek’s eyebrow rises and he crosses his arms and leans on the doorframe. It’s infuriating. It's sexy as hell. Yuri scowls, “What’s wrong, motherfucker?” Coz that’s so much more polite.

“Who said anything was wrong?”

“Your fucking face. Sit down and eat something. You’re pissing me off doing your hovering thing.” Yuri points at a chair with his spoon then shovels granola into his mouth. The Kazakh sighs and _finafuckingly_ sits down. Yuri sighs and shoves himself away from the table to get his _esteemed guest_ a cup of coffee, even though the jerk has stayed over at least ten (seventeen) times before and knows where everything is.

“Is that my shirt?” The other’s heavier voice makes him pause as he’s reaching up for a mug from a top shelf. He glances down and, yeah, he supposes it probably is. It’s black and it’s a bit too big, and it hangs down to almost his knees when he’s standing flat-foot. He likes how it’s riding up right now, though. He makes a non-committed noise and grabs a mug, moving about to finish his task.

Beka is trying to read him again, when he slaps the mug down in front of the other, filled with sugar and milk like he knows the bastard likes it ( _gross, is that even coffee anymore?_ ). Yuri shoots him an indignant look and shoves another spoonful of his food in his mouth as he drops back to his own chair. He’s a little disappointed it’s started to go soggy, but whatever. Fuck Otabek and his stupid fucking face and his goddamn shirt and those sexy eyes that are currently working him over and that hair he wants to scrape his nails thr--

Whoa, put on the breaks. Stop right there, do not pass Go, do not collect $200. Yuri frowns at himself. They are _not.repeating.last.night._ This morning. Whatever. He has to be at the rink at one. There really isn’t enough time to do his hair again.

Otabek clears his throat and looks away, drinking down some coffee. Yuri scowls more. Fucking _fine._ Before he fully registers what his body is doing, Yuri is across the room, dumping the tragic remains of his breakfast into the trash, then heading for the sink to toss the bowl and spoon. He turns, leaning against the counter, and stares. Beka met his gaze, and quirked an eyebrow. This time it's his turn to ask, “What?”

And then Yuri pounces. Fingers into hair, pushing Beka back from the table, barely giving him time enough to put the mug down before he is pushing his thighs over Otabek’s and dropping down onto his lap. The older boy lets out a surprised noise, hands coming up to grab his hips. Yuri purrs and presses himself forward, moving to throw his arms over the other’s shoulders and force their mouths together.

This is a better breakfast, he decides. Beka tastes like coffee, with mild hits of toothpaste and last night. When he finally breaks off to breathe, Yuri grins, pressing his forehead to Otabek’s, “So if it’s your shirt...do you want it back?”

Fingers hook under his ass and he lets out a rather undignified noise as he finds himself lifted. Otabek stands, kicking the chair out of his way and wrapping Yuri’s legs around his waist. Yuri giggles into his neck, holding tighter and rolling his hips against the other, feeling heat rising up to meet him. Beka says something in Kazakh, which only spurs Yuri into reintroducing his teeth to Beka's pulse.

They make it into the living room before Otabek sets him on the back of Yuri's low designer leather couch, holding him firm so he doesn't move. When the elder pulls back, Yuri licks his upper teeth and flashes him a predatory grin. But Otabek has plans, he always seems to have plans. And this time includes pushing Yuri's thighs wide apart, the underside scraping against the rough fabric of the couch, and dropping himself down onto his knees. And, _oh fuck_ , he's the perfect fucking height to just breathe and pull a whine from Yuri's lips.

Rough fingers trace over Yuri's thighs, and he'd love to study the contrast in colors, if the other wasn't suddenly teasing him so fucking _horribly_. Otabek pushes the edges of the shirt up and pauses, looking up, “No underwear at all, Yura?”

The blonde sniffs and looks away, “Nothing you haven't seen before. Didn't see a need.”

“Uh-huh.” There's that horrible smirk, Yuri doesn't even need to look to see it. He intently studies his medals on the wall instead, stubbornly refusing to bend to Beka’s subtle teasing.

And then it's not so subtle, there's fingers on a hip and his other hand is touching his rapidly responding member. It's not enough to satisfy, but enough to make him gasp and dig his fingers into the fabric of the couch. He whips his eyes back, Otabek is watching his face, eyes shining, and Yuri mutters a string of curses at him. It only encourages the bastard, who touches him with delicate fingers, like he’ll break.

Yuri’s eyes narrow and he moves a hand from the couch to Beka’s hair, grasping and pulling, “I’m not a fucking piece of glass, asshole.”

“Aah, but you’re a work of art.” _Fuck,_ why is this man so _cheesy_? And he doesn’t even crack a smile. But his fingers finally actually touch him, he finally actually feels the heat around his erection and he leans back a little, tensing and hissing his breath through his teeth, any pending insult forgotten.

The fingers on his hip turn into a firm hand and it tugs his hips forward just slightly, holding steady with a promise not to let him go. And Beka has a talented mouth, he trails it up Yuri’s inner thigh in small kisses. A heady distraction from the fingers moving so slowly, twisting so perfectly over him. Yuri is a work of art that Otabek knows exactly how to dismantle. Teeth scrape against him _sososo_ close and his whole body freezes. When he can gather enough of his brain back together, he tugs Beka’s hair again and shoots him a glare.

Otabek simply hums at him. And then drags his tongue up the underside of Yuri’s member. It’s all Yuri can do not to scream at him in frustration. Beka is moving, at first Yuri hopes he’s moving forward, but then he’s standing up. Why is Beka standing up? He lets go of Yuri’s member (the blonde can’t help the offended noise that leaves him) and disentangles Yuri’s fingers from his hair. He wants to protest, but the hands are on his ass again and Yuri finds himself lifted once more.

“I swear to _God_ , Altin-” He’s cut off by Beka’s mouth on his own, biting off his protest with a tongue trying to work its way to his throat. It’s enough of a distraction that when he opens his eyes again he realizes Otabek has somehow moved them into his goddamn bedroom. How? He hadn’t even felt them move. He frowns, wrapping his arm around the other’s neck and turning his torso to look around. He really should clean this place some time. But the bed is mostly clear, though the blankets are still pushed to the bottom in a heap.

Otabek unceremoniously tosses him onto the mattress, a pillow popping into the air and his cat hissing at them both before vanishing over the opposite side. Yuri would shoot him another glare, but Beka is peeling off that shirt he’s wearing and showing off that delicious tan skin and hip line that dips down into his pants. He doesn’t realize he’s trapped until the other is leaning over him, hands pressing into the mattress, forcing him to lean back.

“So, this is my shirt.” Fingers find their way underneath the bottom hem. Yuri is watching Otabek, but suddenly he realizes the Kazakh is looking elsewhere, to his other hand. And frowning. He sits up. _What the hell?_ He picks up bundle of cloth from the bed and unravels it, “And so is this.” It’s a pale blue tee Yuri clearly remembers stealing from him after Worlds. Beka’s dark eyes are back on him again, “What...how many shirts have you stolen?”

Well, _fuck._ There’s no use hiding, so Yuri drops back on the mattress, hair splashing out around himself, and makes a display of it, lifting his hands to tick off numbers as he counts down the shirts he remembers and those he’s probably making up, but he knows it’s a lot. He’s held up his index fingers three times when Beka covers one with his own, lowering the hand to force him to meet his eyes.

And the mother fucker is _laughing_. It’s silent, until Yuri realizes it, and then he’s curling over and it’s all-out _there._ And _son of a bitch he’s not allowed to look that good_. It’s not fair. Yuri flails an arm, scowls at the other as his hand wraps around a pillow. He brings it down and attempts to bash the other with it. Otabek has the advantage, though, and his weapon sucks, so little damage is done and he quickly finds himself pinned. This is so not cool. He’s supposed to be getting a blow job or laid or... _not_ laughed at.

“Fuck you, Altin.” That seems to make the other laugh harder. This is ridiculous. There’s a forehead pressed into his shoulder, and Yuri wishes his legs were on the outside so he could have some sort of advantage in this position. All he has left is his teeth, so he lets them dig into Beka’s shoulder. That draws Otabek’s attention back, lifts some weight off of him as he pulls back to look down at him again. Yuri smirks triumphantly, despite still being effectively pinned to his own bed.

And then he remembers, “So you’re not mad at me anymore?”

“I wasn’t mad at you to begin with.” One of his arms is freed and there’s fingers playing with his hair, “I don’t know where you’re getting that.”

Yuri scoffs, “What the fuck ever. So you were just posing for me?” He pushes his own fingers into Otabek’s hair. Eyes close and his head tilts into the touch, it makes Yuri smile. And then he has to ruin the sentiment by tugging on the hair again and making the other look at him, “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Everything’s just fine.” Lips meet lips and push his uncertainty down. Okay, Yuri supposes he can let it go if Beka will forgive him about the shirts. And maybe let him keep a few. He shouldn’t be able to take all of them back with him, anyway. Things pick up where they left off, fingers move down under his shirt again, Beka shifts himself and moves to put himself between Yuri’s legs, which Yuri gratefully accepts and locks them around his hips, pressing himself into the other’s bulge, reminding him of what they were doing and what Yuri _wants_ to be doing. He feels Beka laugh into the kiss again, so Yuri bites onto Beka’s tongue in warning.

Somehow, Yuri quickly finds his position changed. He’s breathless, his shirt is pushed up into his armpits, and both his hands are in Otabek’s hair and the other is attacking a nipple. His body is pushing up into that heat and he craves more. Wants to push Beka’s track pants down and-

And someone’s phone is going off. It’s tragic, and it’s not stopping. A goddamn fucking _alarm_. They both freeze and listen to it. It drags them both back to reality. It’s Yuri’s alarm. It’s noon. It’s _motherfuckinggoddamnitareyoufuckingserious_ noon and he has to be at the goddamn rink at one. And Beka is fucking laughing again.

Yuri moves his hands from Beka’s hair to his chest and untangles his legs and gracelessly shoves the other off of him. Otabek doesn’t resist, rolling off to the side so he can get up and stumble over to kill the noise. He catches a glimpse of himself in his hand mirror and curses. He’s going to have to do his hair again, too. Talk about a mood killer. Otabek is pulling a shirt on and it’s all kind of disappointing.

Yuri lowers his phone and watches him dress, chewing on his bottom lip. He should get moving or he’ll be doing his own hair on the fucking bus while strangers stare at him and Beka keeps that stupid grin on his face. But the other is so goddamn distracting, it’s hard to get moving. The phone in his hand buzzes again and breaks his thoughts, he shakes his head to clear it, and picks up a brush as the other moves close by, “Braid my hair.”

“Yes, your majesty.”

“Fuck off.” But Yuri drops down into his chair and Beka makes quick work, by some miracle. Pulling a french braid out of fucking nowhere. Whatever, it’s presentable and it’ll last through a half dozen jumps before it starts breaking apart. He murmurs what’s close enough to a ‘thanks’ as Otabek is ever going to get, then vanishes into his closet to get dressed in proper clothes.

He makes sure to wear one of his own shirts, one that hugs him in all the right ways and makes Otabek watch him as he passes by on his way to the living room, “Race you to the bus stop. If I win, you have to buy me dinner.”

“If I win, you do dishes for a week.”

“I live here!” Yuri protests, grabbing his keys and skating bag. It doesn’t sound like much of a threat, in his opinion.

“How often do you do your dishes?”

It’s after noon, and Yuri Plisetsky decides it’s just too fucking early to deal with Otabek Altin.

 


End file.
